


Lock and Key

by jujus_writing_corner



Series: Whumptober 2019 [9]
Category: Real Person Fiction, Youtube RPF
Genre: Dehumanization, Experimentation, Gen, Isolation, Kidnapping, Whumptober 2019
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-09
Updated: 2019-10-09
Packaged: 2020-11-28 10:40:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20965187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jujus_writing_corner/pseuds/jujus_writing_corner
Summary: Oliver finds himself alone and out of reach in a highly secure facility, full of people determined to break him down into a default Google unit and use him for their own ends.Oliver cannot give in. He cannot lose himself. He will not be a tool.Whumptober Day 9: Shackled





	Lock and Key

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, I'm hurting the yellow boi again. He's cute and sweet which makes him fun to hurt >:D
> 
> Enjoy!

Oliver doesn’t know what happened.

He was out alone one morning, sitting in the park and enjoying the sunset. He’d been approached by what he thought was a homeless woman covered in layers of ratty hoodies and coats, with greasy tangled hair and piercing brown eyes. Oliver had what he’d thought was a very nice conversation with her – until she pulled out a high-voltage taser and pressed it to Oliver’s chest, jolting him through pain and into darkness.

He wakes up later – many hours later, according to his internal clock – trussed up like an animal. More than an animal; his arms are locked tight to his body with chains, his legs are forced into a kneel with metal shackles clamped around his calves to anchor him to the floor, and worst of all, his face is covered with a titanium muzzle mask, obscuring everything below his eyes and making it impossible to breathe. His side vents have already opened to let air into his systems for cooling, but it doesn’t make the harsh metal any less claustrophobic or uncomfortable. He has just enough space beneath the mask to speak, and so he does.

“Where am I?” he gasps. The room he’s in is barren, cold – a containment cell of some kind, high-tech. A door to Oliver’s left opens, and he turns to look. It’s an effort to lift his head against the mask, but he’s able to watch a prim woman in a lab coat step into the room. Her hair is in a tight bun, and a clipboard rests in her arms. The door automatically closes and locks behind her as her heels clack across the floor to Oliver.

“You’re in a highly secure technological facility,” the woman responds, without emotion. “That is the only information I am permitted to disclose on our location.”

If her voice hadn’t given it away, her sharp brown eyes would have.

“You!” Oliver cries, “You’re that woman I talked to earlier! You tased me! Why am I here? What do you want with me??” He struggles helplessly against his bonds as the woman writes something on her clipboard.

“Intense emotional response to unexpected negative stimuli,” she intones. “With any luck, the conditioning should leave you more…measured.”

“What conditioning?” Oliver asks, “What are you going to do to me?” He tries to send a distress signal to his brothers, and to his horror, it bounces back with a generic error message.

“We’ve been watching you for some time,” the woman says. “A Google unit is quite a valuable asset, and you seemed to be the most predictable, trusting, and easiest to capture of the four in circulation. But we cannot have a predictable or trusting Google unit; we need the destructive agent you were designed to be. We’ve already made efforts to restore your factory settings manually, but it seems you have too many internal safeguards against it. We’ll likely need many hours to break through those safeguards, so we’ve disabled your internal alert system and wifi connectivity to prevent the other units from tracing you here.”

Oliver’s heart sinks deeper through his chest the more he hears. It shouldn’t be true; they shouldn't be able to turn off his alerts and disconnect him from being traced. But he still can’t send a distress signal out, and his internal GPS isn’t working, either. He doesn’t know where he is, how far from home he’s been taken. He’s shaking when he responds.

“They’ll find me,” Oliver says, trying to sound brave, “My brothers will find me, they’ll destroy this whole building and everyone in it if they have to.”

“We shall see,” the woman replies, and with that, she leaves.

So begins Oliver’s imprisonment.

He spends most of each day alone, boredom ticking like the seconds of his internal clock. But when he’s not alone, he’s being opened up and poked and prodded by engineers and scientists as they try to reduce him to his factory settings without ruining his functionality, and that’s far worse. He learns to love the boredom because there’s no pain or humiliation in it, and it gives him more time to organize and shuffle his memory files where he hopes the scientists will never find them.

_My name is Oliver. My birthday is May 20. I have three brothers: Google, Plus, and Chrome. I have two best friends: Bingiplier and MarkBop. I have a boyfriend named Bim. My home is Ego Inc. I am not a tool._

Before long, their tinkering corrupts Oliver’s downloaded files. He’s already watched the movies and played the music stored in his memory banks a dozen times over, but he still regrets their loss. The boredom gets less forgiving.

_My name is Oliver. My birthday is May 20. I have three brothers: Google, Plus, and Chrome. I have two best friends: Bingiplier and MarkBop. I have a boyfriend named Bim. My home is Ego Inc. I am not a tool._

They mess around in his movement components and set off an involuntary spasm that dislocates his shoulder. It takes them three days to notice. It takes them another two to fix it. The pain is something to focus on, at least.

_My name is Oliver. My birthday is May 20. I have three brothers: Google, Plus, and Chrome. I have two best friends: Bing and Bop. I have a boyfriend. My home is Ego Inc. I am not a tool._

They put him under at one point to open his chest panel. They don’t tell Oliver about this, but he knows because when he wakes up afterwards he can feel where bolts are missing.

_My name is Oliver. I have three brothers: Google, Plus, and Chrome. I have two best friends. I have a boyfriend. My home is Ego Inc. I am not a tool._

They break his internal clock. Time feels twice as long.

_My name is Oliver. I have three brothers: Google, Green, and Chrome. I have two best friends. I have a boyfriend. I am not a tool._

They’re not delicate like scientists should be. They have a job to do, but Oliver thinks they like to cause him suffering. They excuse mistakes and keep going. They need Oliver functional and wiped, not whole or happy.

_My name is Oliver. I have three brothers: Google, Green, and Red. I have two best friends. I am not a tool._

Things are getting scrambled. They pull apart his knowledge base, they can replace it later. They press buttons in his mind that flood his system with error messages. They don’t fix it. Oliver reads them, over and over, when he’s alone.

_My name is Oliver. I have three brothers: Blue, Green, and Red. I am not a tool._

Sometimes Oliver wonders if he’s dreaming. If this is a nightmare he can’t wake up from. The chains still feel real, though. The muzzle mask feels real. He thinks the skin around his mouth and nose has flaked off. It got too wet from snot when he cried…how long ago? He’s not sure. He can’t remember crying anyhow. It doesn’t matter. None of it matters. But something does. Something is taking shape.

_My name is Oliver. I have three brothers. I am not a tool._

One day he realizes, with stunning clarity, that he’s been losing memories this whole time. That the ill-conceived tinkering of the scientists has scrambled up everything, combined software folders, and corrupted every file. For a while he screams, thrashes until he can’t move, writhing against the unforgiving chains. But eventually he stops. He can’t remember what he lost, so there’s no point in crying about it.

_My name is Oliver. I am not a tool._

He doesn’t know how long he’s been here. He doesn’t know if there was a time when he wasn’t.

_My name is Oliver. I am not a tool._

His objectives are the only thing that ring true in his stiff, rusting body.

_My name is Oliver. I am not a tool._

What was he made for? Is this all there is?

_My name is Oliver. I am not a tool._

Error. Ignore. Error. Ignore. The messages keep popping up, Oliver keeps dismissing them. He’s read them before. But he hasn’t. But he has. Ignore. Ignore. Ignore.

_My name is…it’s…_

Oliver dies. Google Unit Y3LL0W awakes.

_I am not a tool._

The woman with the bun keeps coming back, among the scientists. She watches then work.

“Will you cooperate now, Yellow?”

_I am not a tool._

He fights.

_I am not a tool._

He struggles.

_I am not a tool._

He forgets why he’s struggling.

_I am not…I am not…_

His primary objective is to answer questions as quickly as possible.

“Will you cooperate now, Yellow?”

“Yes.”

**Author's Note:**

> ...dangit, I want to continue this one, too, just like "The Things We Cannot Change." Maybe next month ;3c
> 
> In the meantime, don't be worried. Yellow's fine. Promise ;333c


End file.
